OHIM
by Aunt Kitty
Summary: Sequel to TGIF--the continuing misadventures of Dr. Mallard and the hapless bookseller down the street... and what exactly -is- the Mile High Club...? COMPLETE
1. Chapter 1: Ephemera

**Summary:** Sequel to TGIF. (You might want to read it before going on.) The continuing misadventures of Dr. Mallard and the hapless bookseller down the street. Fluff; no casefic.

**Note:** Mildly AU.

**Betas and cheerleaders:** Everyone who said, "I like TGIF, but I wanted to know what happens next" and/or "More Ducky lovin'!"… this is all your fault. Thank you.

**Genre:** General Drama/Romance

**Pairing:** Ducky/OFC

**Rating/Warnings:** Rated M: contains explicit scenes and situations and random strong language throughout. No slash; no BDSM.

**Spoilers:** None; an allusion or two throughout.

**Time frame:** Fall 2006 to Summer 2007

**Disclaimer:** All NCIS characters are the property of Bellisarius Productions, Paramount, CBS and the appropriate copyright holders within those companies. All other characters for this story (barring real persons mentioned in passing) are my original creation and property.

* * *

**O.H.I.M. (Oh, Hell, It's Monday)**

Or

**T.G.I.F: After the Ball**

* * * * * * * * * *

**CHAPTER ONE – EPHEMERA**

_**Ephemera—**__Printed material of passing interest in every day life (e.g.: advertising, ticket stubs, photos, postcards, programs, some booklets and pamphlets, etc.)._

* * *

_It's taken me a while to realize it but I finally can accept the fact that some people should just not travel by air—and I am one of them._

_Take the year I tried to go out to Colorado for a mystery writers' convention. (__**Please**__ take it.) Oh, that was a great time. Went from Dulles to O'Hare… rerouted to Dallas… then to Tucson (I never did figure that jump), then to Vegas then to Denver—oops, wrong answer, thank you for playing! Denver was buried in a freak snowstorm, so we ended up in SeaTac, then LAX, then back to SeaTac (with the hope we'd hit Denver) then… __**back to Dulles**__. (At least __**that**__ leg was non-stop.) I was still in the clothes I'd worn the day before, it was now a day __**later**__, and my luggage ended up in West Virginia. (That still has me at a loss.) I logged so many miles and earned so many comp vouchers that trip I could have gone to Hawaii, first class, for free… if I dared._

_The trip in 1979 to WorldCon—Brighton-by-the-Sea Con—well, I don't talk about that one unless plied with copious amounts of alcohol. (I still get twitchy when the in-flight menu includes salmon.)_

_And the phrase 'airport security' makes me want to throw things. Like—a fit. Or—up. (I've been stripsearched more than most gangbangers. I'm a kinda short, slightly graying, a little bit hippy (weight-wise and politically) bookseller—so I look like a terrorist? Wait; don't answer that.)_

_So why did I think a simple flight to New York for the '07 book expo would be… simple?_

_It is to laugh. A bit hysterically… but, laugh, nonetheless…_

* * *

* * *

For the record: I don't believe in love at first sight.

Sorry, Hallmark. Forgive me, See's. It's just not possible. You can't love someone you don't know. You can be interested in them, sure. You can like them—like them a lot, even. But I just can't see that you could meet someone and fall in love, bam, right off the bat.

(If I say it enough, maybe I'll convince myself.)

A little Halloween history. The last time I went to a big bash costume party I was, what—35? Sounds right. The theme of the party—thrown by a not-quite-rival bookseller—was literary figures (she was really reaching on that one, eh?). I dressed as Mme. Du Farge (complete with knitting). My then-beau came as Mozart (an interesting choice for a heavy metal fan). (He claimed that since _Amadeus_ had been a Broadway hit that it was a literary cousin. B.J. wasn't a picky hostess—she was just glad we'd come in costume, so she let it fly.) We played the corny games we'd played in childhood—bobbing for apples (I won; I always did)… throwing candy corn across to our waiting partner's mouth (we lost in the first round, but the winners made an impressive 8'7-1/2" distance)… pin the tail on the black cat (I wasn't even on the right wall)… and the like. Amazing how much fun you can have reverting to grade school.

Before that, my best Halloween party _was_ from grade school. We'd grilled burgers and hot dogs and gone trick-or-treating en masse for a couple of hours. I guess we were a little scary, a block of twenty-some kids approaching at once, because the neighbors all dumped buckets of candy in our bags as bribes against potential 'tricks' we would have never considered (since both my brother and my dad were escorting us on our sugar raid). Enough candy for ages—so much that we tossed out the stale stuff for fresh Christmas goodies two months later. The local dentist bought a new Mercedes.

Halloween was long my favorite holiday, even before we started throwing an annual party at the store. And I'd had some great holidays and great costumes along the way. But 2006 became my apex, the bar by which future Halloweens would be measured. And they'd all come up short… guaranteed.

Now, this may be a sexist comment, but most men don't like to dance. I don't know why; I've always looked at dancing as long, slow foreplay—and what's wrong with that? But most of my boyfriends (oh, it seems silly to use that word at my age!) looked at dancing with the same expression one would use when offered root canal surgery without anesthesia.

Most. But not Dr. Donald Mallard.

When Ducky invited me to a Halloween costume party—pardon me, _fancy_ _dress_ party—I figured it would be hors d'oeuvres and nibbles and drinks, people in rented costumes making small talk with strangers and trying not to be _too_ bored. I accepted because, well… because Ducky had asked me. We'd met during one of the worst weeks of my life; he'd been sweet and supportive and kind—and interested. I was coming out of the breakup from hell and wasn't going to jump into a new relationship… but a voice in the back of my head said I'd be a fool to shut the door completely if he was on the other side. So I left the door cracked open, a little curious to see what happened.

Well, what happened that Saturday was… wonderful.

The friends of Ducky's who were throwing the party—people he'd met through a vintage record club—had booked a gorgeous old Victorian house for the evening. You know the kind—drawing room, morning room, sitting room, ballroom… fifteen or twenty rooms without counting bedrooms and WCs. A little, unassuming place big enough to house a small town. They'd hired a band with the interesting name 'Blue Atomic Zombies' who played Halloween versions of oldies but goodies (things like, "I'll be haunting you, always"—interesting, given how important the song was in _Blithe_ _Spirit_… but I digress)—and people were dancing up a storm. The nibbles were more than a veggie platter and chips and dips, and everything was Halloween-themed… and _good_.

Instead of strained chit-chat, everyone not dancing was involved in animated discussions. Not just 'how about the weather?' or the usual we-live-near-D.C. political crap. Music (not odd, given the hosting group). Movies. Books. History. Philosophy. Greek vs. Roman vs. Egyptian mythology, for heaven's sake. In one corner, a large, vocal group was discussing the Harry Potter series—and not one person was under 40. (As a bookseller, I loved it.)

Ducky, however, wanted to dance. "Shall we, schweetheart?" he asked, bobbing his head toward the dance floor. He was still channeling Bogie, his costume muse.

"My pleasure." I dropped a curtsey—well, the best I could manage in my dress—and tucked my parasol into a corner. After gauging the crowd, I added my feather-bedecked hat to the parasol and followed him to the floor.

I want it on record that Dr. Donald Mallard, M.E., is _**not**_ a good dancer.

He is a _**fabulous**_ dancer.

Oh. My. God. Dancing with him is better than—

Well, let's not go there. Use your imagination. We danced and danced and _danced_. And danced some more. Move over, Ginger Rogers. Hang up your shoes, Cyd. With Ducky holding me as we moved around the floor, I could out-dance anyone. And I have never, ever felt so special in my life. By the time we left at midnight, I was walking on air.

The drive back to his house was too short, our post-party aperitif (tea in his cozy kitchen) too brief. But I had a drive back to Silver Spring ahead of me and reluctantly walked outside to my van, Ducky guiding me with a hand at the small of my back. (And didn't that give me a lovely tingle. Oh, my, yes, it did.)

"I feel an absolute cad, having you drive home at this hour…"

"I don't mind." Hell, I'd had such a good time, I'd happily drive back to Texas. It was the leaving I was regretting, not the drive. "I can't remember having such a wonderful evening."

"Agreed." His eyes had a lovely twinkle. "I can't guarantee another fancy dress party in the future… but perhaps we could step out on the town again…?"

Boy. Oh, boy. Boy, oh, boy.

Part of me was still scared to death to 'get back on the horse' and put David Sutton, treasonous adulterer (whose death almost landed me in the hoosegow), far behind me. And… part of me said I was an idiot if I turned away from this chance.

"I'd love to."

Eep. Where did that come from? (Nervous cough.) Oh. Hmm. Apparently from my eager, idiotically grinning mouth.

He looked like he was considering a goodnight kiss… and I probably wouldn't say no.

Or would I?

Boy… I really was scrambled.

He picked up my hand and held it to his cheek for a moment, then kissed the back, a long, warm, lingering touch. As he let it gently fall back down I sucked in a slightly gasping breath, suddenly realizing I had stopped breathing for that lovely moment. "I look forward to it." Oh… such a sweet sparkle in those eyes.

I shivered faintly. "Me, too."

I never fell asleep that night. But… I didn't mind.

* * *

Sunday passed in a pleasant fog. Abby stopped by to help out during the afternoon (putting Alan and Geoff into ecstasy—two days in a row with their Goth angel straw boss); after hearing about her evening in detail, I was asked no fewer than four times, "So? _So_???"

I wanted to have a long, girly-girl hen party, spilling all the wonderful details and delicious fantasies from the night before. With a pang, it finally hit me. Evelyn, my longtime manager, friend and confidant, really was gone. Of course, hearing about my wannabe love life while nursing a silent crush on me would have hurt her tremendously, I thought guiltily.

Man. How can one life get so complicated so fast?

It was tempting to spill all to Abby. But she had known Ducky for something like ten years, worked with him every day, so… No.

So I limited myself to "wonderful" and details about the house and food and music. From her sly look, it was plain she knew there was more to be told. I had a feeling she'd be mugging Ducky for the details in the morning.

I waffled all day long. Call him? Don't call him? Too forward? Too timid? I'd never been so indecisive before. But, then… I'd never met anyone quite like Ducky before.

And there's no such thing as love at first sight. Remember that.

Monday was an insanely busy day. A lot of last-minute Halloween-themed purchases and promises from parents and kids to come back the next day for our party. Damn. Another heart tug. From her first year at the store Evelyn had turned our cookies, punch and treat bag into a full-blown bash. She had boxes of goodies in her—I bit my lip—in the online office. I squared my shoulders. I owed it to her to carry on her tradition. By god, this would be the best Halloween party, ever.

While I was sitting on the floor of what I didn't yet consider Valerie's office, bagging cookies and candy and toys, Geoff came in with a puzzled look. "Uh—you have a delivery."

"Put it in the stockroom," I said, tying bow after bow of black and orange ribbon.

He didn't answer, so I looked up. "Um… I don't think…"

"Is it too big?" I hadn't ordered anything recently—not that I remembered, anyway.

"It's… not books. It's…" He blushed. "Personal."

Personal? And Geoff was blushing? I scrambled up and hurried to the front desk.

A delivery boy was anxiously shifting from foot to foot, plainly antsy to get out and finish his route. "Miss Talmadge? Direct signature required." He shoved a clipboard toward me and pointed to line 43. I scrawled my name and dug out a couple of crumpled singles for a tip. "Thanks." He bailed out the front door.

I turned back to the desk and actually gasped when I saw what was waiting. A gorgeous arrangement of at least two dozen roses, full blooms of snow white and buds of impossible-to-get Sterlings, those lovely, delicate lavender roses, set in a tall cut glass vase. No wonder Geoff was blushing. I was, too. A box next to the vase bore the distinctive ribbon of the best confectioner in the tri-state area. Boy. Oh, boy. Boy, oh, boy. Thinking lustful thoughts (hey!—about the box and the contents thereof), I nonchalantly pulled the envelope from the ribbon on the vase and slipped out the card. _My Dearest Cassandra—Thank you for a delightful evening. I look forward to seeing you… soon. Wishing you a lovely day—Ducky._

My blush was probably showing up on radar screens. Knowing everyone was curious about the note, I deflected them with a baser instinct: chocolate. I untied the ribbon and removed the lid and a chorus of, "_Ooooooohhhh!_" greeted the contents. Truffles. Itty, bitty, glorious, miniature bites of chocolate perfection known as… truffles. I held out the box and eager fingers dove in.

Hugging the flowers and clutching the box, I all but skipped back to my office and shut the door. Roses? And gourmet truffles? It is _nice_ to be courted.

I curled up in my favorite old chair and pulled out my cell phone with one hand and found a champagne truffle with the other. Oh, god… I almost had an orgasm from that little spoonful of chocolate. No wonder she's won awards every freaking year for forever. (No wonder she charges so much, too.)

"Autopsy."

Amazing. Take a word that conjures up thoughts of death, dying, murder, crime and generally unpleasant topics—and if you hear it said by a kind, gentle voice, it doesn't seem that bad.

Sounds nice, even.

"…Autopsy?"

"Oh. Ah. Hi. It's me." Oh, jeez. Did I actually _giggle_?

"Cassandra." I could hear the smile in his voice. "What a lovely surprise…"

"I just wanted to call you—I mean—" I crossed my legs and settled back into the chair. "I had such a wonderful time Saturday." I was all but melting.

"You are a marvelous dancer."

"_You_ are a marvelous _leader_."

"Is it too early in the week to ask if you have plans for this Friday?"

Ooooh. Roses. Chocolates. And a second date. "Oh, Ducky. Saturday night wasn't too early!" Yep, that's me, playing hard to get. I dropped my head into my hand and almost groaned.

He laughed. "That's _very_ good to know." Good. He was laughing with me, not at me. "What are your feelings regarding amateur theatre?"

It was my turn to laugh. "Well… how amateur?"

"Well…" he echoed. "It's… a little theatre group."

I grinned. "It's not Abby's friend, is it?"

"No—though I tried to get tickets for their production of _Dracula_ tomorrow. Alas—it is sold out. No, this is in Reston. A young woman who lives down the street—" He began to chuckle. "Is playing Eliza Doolittle—"

I almost fell out of the chair. The costume I'd borrowed for Saturday, a gorgeous black and white gown that made me look taller than my 5'3", was hanging on the outside of the closet door in my office. (The feathered hat—a cat toy, if ever there were one—was safely tucked inside.) I was going to return it on my way home that night. "_My_ _Fair_ _Lady_?" I got out around my giggles.

"The very same. She passed out flyers around the block last night, and dropped off two tickets for opening night."

"I think she's flirting with you." Ooh. Hiss, spit; back off those green eyes, girl.

He snorted. "Hardly. I frequently baby-sat her when her parents first moved in. She's barely drinking age, my dear."

I, on the other hand, was definitely drinking age—as he well knew. "Well—I'd love to go with you, Ducky." Understatement.

"The show starts at 8:30. I thought I could pick you up from the store, we could go out to dinner…?"

"Oh, Ducky—the 'out to dinner' sounds lovely. But that's so much extra driving for you. Back to the store after the show, then all the way back home—_again_… why don't I just drive to Reston?"

There was a short silence. I was sure his gentlemanly ways were at war with the pragmatism of my suggestion. "Sandy…" he started hesitantly.

"I know, I know… And I also know if we had plans in my neck of the woods, you'd be the first to suggest driving out to meet me."

"Well, yes, but that's different."

"Come on. You aren't Andy Hardy and I'm not Judy Garland, and we aren't walking down the street to the malt shop. Dating is always a little more complex when you live in one state, I live in another and we work in a third." Oh, gosh. I said the 'D' word.

He sighed, then laughed. "True enough. I guess I need to enter the 21st Century."

"Well, you don't have to enter too far." I popped another truffle into my mouth. (So much for my theory that he'd be anti-sweets.) "I _like_ being escorted. I _like_ having my hand kissed. And I _love_ Charlotte's Chocolates."

"A weakness of mine, I admit."

"I'm delighted to share that weakness. You have excellent taste."

He chuckled, a delicious sound. "I agree." His laugh sounded just a hair naughty. Just a hair.

I knew I was blushing again. "And the roses—" I lost my voice for a moment. "They're beautiful," I managed to whisper. "Thank you."

"You are… very welcome." His voice was very gentle.

I cleared my throat. "So. Um. When should I meet you? At the restaurant? Or—" I swallowed hard. "Your place?"

"Well—you do know where I live…"

You betcha, I do.

"Do you like Chinese food?"

"I love it."

"I haven't been there in a while, but there's a place not far from my home—they had a wonderful Mandarin orange chicken…"

Note to self: don't ever, _ever_ order duck again. "What would be a good time?" Besides now, an hour from now, Tuesday, Wednesday…

"When do you close on Friday?"

"That's the joy of paying other people. I can tell someone else to sit around until nine."

"Would 6:30 be convenient?"

I'd _make_ it convenient. "Perfect."

* * *

Friday night was… wonderful. Dinner was out of this world, the show was as good as an off-Broadway show (and some of them _on_ Broadway) and the coffee and cake back at 'Mallard Manor' was outstanding. (He's actually a better baker than I am, I freely admit.)

"Oh, Ducky." It was a pleasantly cool night. "I had a wonderful time." That word was getting quite a workout since I'd met him.

"They were rather good," he agreed.

"I always have such a good time around you," I blurted out. Yep. That's me: open mouth, insert foot. Add salt to taste and chew vigorously. I knew I was candy apple red.

He held the back of my hand to his cheek for a long moment. "I'm glad." He lingered over the kiss he pressed to my hand and I actually shivered a little. He flicked his eyes toward me… and I didn't throw caution to the wind. I pitched it right into the middle of a Cat-5 storm. I turned my hand over, cupped his cheek and reached up to kiss him.

He was startled for a nanosecond—then I found myself on the receiving end of a kiss that made my heart make like Desi Arnaz on the conga drum.

He slipped an arm around my waist, his other hand gently tangling in my hair; it's a good thing he had a firm hold on me, because I was tingling from my barrette to my toenails and I have a feeling I'd have fallen into a pile of tiny bones if he had let go. He'd never said so much, but I had had the feeling he's not much of a pda-type guy—but it was, as the last time, close to midnight and we were standing by my van, in front of his house. Not even a stray cat crossed our path.

Time is one of those amazing things. We kissed, over and over, beautiful caresses that left me breathless, that seemed to go on forever and ever… and felt like they were over in the blink of an eye.

"Good night, my dearest." A kiss to my cheek, then a whisper in my ear, "Drive carefully." A kiss to the other cheek, a whisper in the other ear. "Call me when you get home." A last, soft touch to my lips. "Sleep well."

I drove carefully. I called when I got home. I crawled into bed with his gentle, "Good night," echoing in my ear.

Sleep well?

_Sleep_?

Forget it.

Well… not for several hours, anyway. Though I did finally drift off with a slightly silly smile on my face, hugging my pillow.

But there's no such thing as love at first sight. Remember that.

* * *

-1-


	2. Chapter 2: Gilt Edges

**CHAPTER TWO—GILT EDGES**

_**Gilt Edges**__—Page edges cut smooth and gilded (covered with a thin layer of gold leaf)._

* * *

For the record, I was impressed. Ducky has taste almost as eclectic as mine—and that's saying a lot.

Over the next weeks we went to an interesting collection of restaurants for lunch or dinner, depending more on his work schedule than mine; sometimes we had dinner at my place; sometimes, his. (Occasionally his mother remembered me from our first date and she was disappointed that I wasn't dressing quite to that standard any more; occasionally she was firing on more cylinders and remembered me as the owner of 'that delightful bookstore near Donald's work' and we'd have an animated talk while Ducky assembled another delicious meal. Regrettably, those memories were infrequent.) Ducky found a Scottish Highland Games/Celtic Festival going on (and I got to see him in a kilt—not shabby, by half); I countered with a silent movie festival, complete with musical accompaniment on 'the mighty Wurlitzer organ.' I love bagpipe music; he loves the artistry of the black and white films. Neither of us had to fake our enjoyment. We both were thrilled to see Paula Deen (and sons) in a charity cooking demo in D.C.—but I did have to force a smile when he took me to an Android Lust concert (tickets courtesy Abby). (Did I mention his taste is almost as eclectic as mine? Forget it. It's much more eclectic than mine.)

But as the days crept toward the end of the year, I still wasn't comfortable enough to join him for Thanksgiving.

My parents always drove into D.C. and I puttered down to join them at Ray and Barb's for the holiday. Abby had pouted to hear that I wasn't joining them at Ducky's, but she said she understood family dinners. I think Ducky had a better grasp of the situation. I adored his mother, Abby all but lived at the store, I enjoyed crossing paths with Ziva, Tony and I got along, it was making me crazy trying to figure out where I'd seen McGee—

And then there was Gibbs. Leroy Jethro Gibbs. Special Agent Leroy Jethro Gibbs.

I know he was only doing his job when he hauled me in for questioning when my ex-lover was murdered. And he was only doing his job when he searched my business and house, looking for evidence that my murdered ex-lover had been passing me government secrets. And he was only doing his job when he brought my best friend into interrogation, forcing a confession from her that stunned me and forced her out of my life. He was only doing his job.

But it made for a shaky relationship between the two of us, to say the least. So I decided to forego breaking bread over the Thanksgiving table at Mallard Manor. (I did, however, join Ducky and his mom for leftovers the next day.) Maybe Christmas would be better. Maybe.

Days slipped by in a slow, pleasant haze. There were frequent evenings spent together—cuddling and kissing on the couch while his mother snored not-so-delicately in the other room… cuddling and kissing on the couch while Underfoot glared at us from atop the television. (I'm not sure if it was because Ducky had the scent of the Corgis on his clothes or Foot just felt displaced.) We didn't bother using the 'D' word any more. We'd even progressed to the 'L' word—frequently.

It's amazing. You can meet someone… and feel they've been in your life forever. You can fall in love, look at a calendar and count the scant days… and feel they've held your heart forever.

Maybe that's why I don't believe in love at first sight. When I look at Ducky, there's no feeling of "now." It's more a feeling of "as it is, as it was, as it ever shall be…"

Amen.

* * *

What I am to Halloween and Easter (I kick ass on Easter egg hunts, pardon me for boasting), Ducky is to Thanksgiving. And Christmas. I had always picked up a little tree for the store, something that would fit on the front counter, tossed candy canes and red bows on it and called it good. (Don't get me wrong—I love Christmas. I have a ball shopping for presents and finding 'just the right thing' for people, and I love seeing what other people find for me (often things that never would have occurred to me and end up being indispensable in my life). I just never got into buying and decorating trees after I moved away from my parents. It's one of the areas in my life where I'm very lazy.) When we went to the tree lot and Ducky saw my first choice, there was a flicker of—well, almost brokenheartedness that showed in his eyes.

I smiled brightly. "What would you suggest?"

"Well… that front display window—instead of books, put the tree there? I know, it's a bookstore, it's logical to display books—and you do have some lovely holiday books in the window…"

I cocked my head. Yeah; if I rearranged things, it would look pretty good with a tree out there. But a dinky 3' tree wouldn't cut it. "Okay. Guess we need a bigger tree."

My mind was still reeling when we got back to the store. He had found the biggest tree on the Boy Scout lot (only Rock Center and the White House had larger, I'm sure) and they'd wrapped it in netting and managed to get it in the van. How we were going to get it through the door was going to be interesting.

It took a little work (okay, it took a lot of work) but finally the tree rested in the deep bay window in the front of what had been my very first store. At that moment I realized I didn't have a stand that would hold a tree that size—and I sure as heck didn't have enough ornaments. Back out we went.

We spent most of the day decorating that monster tree. Abby stopped by for several hours (turns out she's more of a Christmas nut than Ducky, hard though I found that to believe) and lent a hand. Two, even. She's a big believer in decorating the whole tree, putting ornaments all the way in as far as possible. Amazing how someone that tall can shinny into such tight spaces between branches. But between her assistance, help from staff and customers (along with kibitzing from same) and indefatigable, unflagging Ducky, we pulled it off.

And it looked spectacular.

When we went back out we had stumbled on a rummage sale with a ton of old Christmas ornaments for sale. People were too intent on getting holiday shopping done at the mall and the sale was virtually empty. The boxes were old and battered and each had a broken ornament or two, so the few customers were overlooking them. The remaining ornaments were 40, 50 even 60 years old. For what we paid for the lot of them a vintage store would have sold us two or three individual pieces. Maybe. Abby set Geoff and Alan to an unknown task; when they emerged, hours later, they brought with them strings of popcorn, cranberries and multicolored construction paper chains. (I absolutely goggled. They looked perfect with our vintage ornaments—but the idea that Geoff and Alan had sat, locked away, studiously threading berries and popped corn and pasting together bits of paper had me in mild shock. I figured they had sold their souls to Abby somewhere along the line. Nothing else made sense.)

I looked at the flickering candles (safe, ecologically-minded LEDs), the muted colors of the balls, the glittering 'icicles' (since the cats couldn't get into the window, it was safe to use them)… and was absolutely transported. "That's the most beautiful tree I've ever seen."

An arm slipped around my waist and squeezed gently. "I agree."

"Thank you." I turned and gave him a quick kiss. "That was a brilliant suggestion. Now…" I glanced at the clock. "I believe it was my turn to cook dinner?"

"I believe you are correct." He had left his car at my place, knowing we were going to need the van for the day—plus there was a Christmas special we wanted to watch, and my TV is bigger. We were halfway home when the horrible truth hit me:

I hadn't gone to the market for at least three days. Maybe a week. I had nothing with which to construct a decent dinner. I just _couldn't_ dish up canned soup and tuna sandwiches. Hell, I wasn't sure the tuna was Star-Kist or 9 Lives, for that matter.

I confessed my lack of planning and Ducky just smiled. "We've both done quite a bit of work today. Let's be lazy and eat out." No argument from me.

Nothing exotic—we ended up at a homey little mom-and-pop coffee shop a few blocks from my place. They'd been there since the thirties (probably the same owners); nouvelle cuisine didn't darken their doors, but they made the best meatloaf in town. And the chocolate cake was to die for.

There was a light snow falling when we arrived—it was a couple of weeks until Christmas, but, hey, it was close enough. We traded stories of Christmases past, shared dinners (I went with the tried-and-true meatloaf; Ducky, the baked chicken) and lingered over coffee and dessert. It was one of those wonderful, cozy moments in time that just… happens.

As we walked outside, it wasn't very late—only about eight—but it was… quiet. For just a moment, it was one of those odd splinters of the cosmos where everything was utterly silent. No traffic. No passersby. The noise from the café abruptly cut off when the door shut behind us. The snow had stopped falling and it was cold, crisp, clear—and silent, almost eerily so. I turned, planning to say something witty—and my words caught in my throat. Ducky was looking at me as he so often did—sweet smile, gentle eyes, head cocked at just the right angle, somewhere between quizzical and impish. The same… and, yet… so different.

He leaned over and kissed me, the lightest of caresses. Compared to evenings where we had gone exploring in the privacy of our own homes, discovering kisses and touches that thrilled and delighted each other, this kiss was absolutely chaste. Prim. Proper. Tame.

But there was so much more beneath it.

From miles away the chimes at Kellerman College rang eight times. As if it signaled the end of a spell, traffic began to flow, chattering teens spilled out of the used CD store down the way and the city came back to life around us. I didn't say anything. Neither did Ducky.

Somehow… we didn't need to.

We drove back to my place, tuning in to the ten year old _Boston Pops Christmas Special_ on PBS and settling on the couch. I snuggled against Ducky's side, his arm around my shoulders and sighed contentedly. This… whatever it was we had… was right. It was good and strong and solid and… right.

He tipped my chin up and kissed me. "I love you."

I ran the side of a finger over his cheek. "And _I_… love _you_." I kissed him back, feeling that already familiar tingle that started burning deep inside as he deepened the kiss, gentle explorations designed to up my interest. (A design that never failed.) His hand slipped up beneath my sweater and I made a little purring noise when he cupped my breast, gently rubbing his thumb across the nipple. It quickly hardened, pushing almost painfully against my bra. I reached up and tugged free his ubiquitous bow tie (I was actually starting to think of them as quite stylish) and worked open the buttons of his shirt. He has far nimbler fingers and managed to open the front catches of my bra with one hand, giving him free range to stroke and caress and pet and oh, damn, it felt great. I don't know (and, frankly, I kinda don't care) if it's his medical training or just innate talent, but he can do fabulous things to my body. And with our clothes on, too. Well… mostly.

Instead of my usual button-down-the-front blouse or flannel shirt since the weather had started to turn, I'd opted for a Christmas-themed sweater. A _pullover_ sweater. Until this point, our necking sessions on one couch or the other had been almost reminiscent of high school—heavy kissing, cuddling and petting, fingers stumbling into 'oops, what is _this_?' buttons that lay opened in their wake, but no disruption of clothing so severe that it couldn't be made right before the parents came downstairs (or, in our case, the time his mother awoke and went wandering at one a.m.). No buttons. No laces. Any removal here would be with permission.

His hands slid behind me, rubbing my bare back while he nuzzled my throat, that deliciously erogenous area right at the curve that makes me go weak and press my thighs together. I pulled in a shuddering breath. "Oh, jeez, Ducky…"

"You don't like…?"

"You _know_ I like."

He pushed the sweater up and moved down so he could kiss and lick and suckle my breasts. Breathing was starting to get a little difficult. Oh… he is _good_. I wriggled in his grasp—he was pushing me closer and closer and… "Oh—_ohhhhh_…" His tongue flicked back and forth over the hard pebbles at the center of my breasts, sending me into a sweet orgasm that flowed over me in waves. He was beyond good; he made my body respond in ways I'd never known it could, almost from our very first meeting. "That's… ohhh," I sighed. The hell with words.

"Mmh." He smiled up at me from where he was dropping lazy kisses over my chest. He flicked a glance at the sweater pushed to the tops of my breasts and then at my face; yes…?

My breath was still shaky. Yes? I sat up slightly and slowly pulled the sweater off the rest of the way.

Yes.

He reached up and eased the bra straps off my shoulders; it slid down my back and puddle on the couch. "Come here." He tugged at my hand.

"Uh-uh." I pulled my hand from his gentle grasp, finished unbuttoning his shirt and tugged it from the waistband of his slacks. No undershirt, I noticed with a smirk. The first time I'd gone, ah, exploring and run into his heavy-duty cotton jobbie I didn't say anything. But, then, my look of irritation probably said it all. Since then, the only times the utilitarian undergarments showed up were when we had a totally spur-of-the-moment get-together… though I'm sure he still wears them by habit to work. The man takes a hint well. I lightly raked my fingernails over his skin, trailing my fingers through the hair on his chest. He shivered; I grinned. "You look sexy when you shudder like that."

He quirked an eyebrow. "You find that sexy?"

"Well…" I leaned closer and ran my tongue around the curve of his ear, eliciting another shiver. "I find a lotta things sexy about you."

He turned so he could kiss me. Hard. "Good." He wrapped his arms around me and pulled me close. "The feeling is mutual." He shifted slightly so that the hair on his chest rubbed against my breasts, a delicious sensation.

I reached up, slipping my hand along the back of his neck, holding him in place so that I could kiss him thoroughly. (Not that he was going anywhere.) I have a private theory that you can gauge a person's ability to kiss by their smile and laugh. Ducky has a delightful smile that goes from sweet and shy to naughty and back to shy in the blink of an eye and has the warmest, most 'gathering in' laugh I've ever heard. The first time we kissed my theory was proven very, very correct. And he has delighted in proving it correct over and over again.

Hands were roaming (somehow my jeans ended up over the back of the couch and his pants were undone; don't know how that happened, honestly…) and kisses were being pressed to mouths, cheeks, throats, hell, any available body part and I started to think we weren't going to make it into the bedroom where there were a couple of condoms from a few months ago before things came to, er, a head when he abruptly froze. Suddenly thinking about protection, I figured, and opened my mouth to assure him all was good in that area.

"He's staring at us."

Hunh? I turned around and saw Mr. Underfoot sitting on the top of a short bookcase. Staring. Kinda reminded me of a fat version of a statue of Bastet. (Or a feline version of Snoopy playing "vulture.") "He always stares at us." I went back to nibbling his neck.

He was still distracted. "Not like this."

I sighed in frustration and sat back, looking at him evenly. "Well, when we're making out at _your_ place, those dogs line up across the way and stare in concert. _Four_ pairs of eyes!"

"Oh, they're not that bad—"

I held up my hands. "Let's not get into 'your kids versus my kids,' okay?" I leaned over and whispered in his ear, "We can shut the bedroom door."

He smiled slowly. "True."

"And…" I took a deep breath. "Since the subject of kids has come up… I'm not on the pill. But I do have one or two condoms in the nightstand. And, hell, you know my blood work is clean." After we'd only been dating a couple of weeks he had ragged on my eating habits—we do a lot of pizza and fast food at work—and I had pulled out my blood test from the month before and flashed it in triumph. My cholesterol was excellent, he grudgingly admitted (while giving me a mild scold about my iron level). I'm sure he didn't miss the ELISA test, if nothing else.

"Is pregnancy a concern?" One nice thing about having an affair with a doctor: conversations that make other men squirm are treated as a matter of fact. (Which they are, really.)

"Well… not as much as it was a couple of years ago, but… vaguely," I admitted. Mom was the first generation to stop at two kids. Her maternal line starts early and runs forever. Grandma had Mom when she was forty-nine (FORTY-NINE!!!) and I really don't want to beat her record.

"Then caution shall be our watchword."

"Let's go where we don't have an audience." I hopped off the couch and backed away, wearing only my panties. (And I was soooooo glad it wasn't the pair with the half-dead elastic and the frayed hem, my I-_really_-need-to-do-laundry emergency underwear.) I wriggled my finger in a "c'm'ere" motion, still backing across the room. Grinning, he followed me (his pants were undone, but still up—it could have been a disaster, otherwise); I continued to walk backward, secure in the clear path to the bedroom.

You know how seduction scenes work in the soaps? The woman sprays perfume on the bed, the bed is made with satin sheets, mood lighting and music are cued up, and she's dressed in a slinky black negligee or something of the sort. The sacrificial lamb succumbs to her charms and they fall into a passionate pile on the bed. It generally doesn't work that well in the real world. A college roommate tried that trick; her sweetheart went into an asthma attack that almost killed him and she found out (the hard way) that he was severely allergic to perfume. Another femme on the prowl went out and bought beautiful silver satin sheets and a sexy nightie in complementary lavender and discovered what she had missed in physics class: satin-clad ass on satin-clad bed slides at the speed of light. She spent that night in the ER, getting her leg plastered.

I took a hint. I never tried for a scene out of _Young and the Restless_, lest I become Young and Damaged.

We walked into the bedroom—I, still walking backward; Ducky, still following my coaxing finger. And suddenly—

Ducky laughed.

I looked at him, torn between being hurt and pissed. "What—"

"Oh, dear god, Cassandra, I am so sorry!" But he was still laughing. I turned around to check out what he was looking at… and flinched. And groaned aloud.

With the coming of winter, I had dug out the quilt my niece, Sharon, had sewn by hand and given me the prior Christmas. I had totally forgotten that the bed of an otherwise sane, sober middle-aged woman was adorned with a quilt of almost psychedelic hues and decorated with scenes from said OSSM-AW's favorite show:

_Pinky and the Brain._

(Okay. My favorite cartoon, anyway.)

The absurdity of the situation hit me and I began to laugh. "Have I utterly ruined the moment?"

He closed the gap between us and wrapped me in a bear hug. "Never." His kiss was reassuring (and hot). "I love the fact that I'm constantly surprised by you." He bit back a laugh. Sort of. "And this was definitely a surprise."

I wriggled from his grasp, scooped up Underfoot (who was sneaking in behind Ducky) and unceremoniously dumped him out into the living room and shut the door. "Let's see what surprises we can find out about each other."

Over the past almost-forty years I've had a few serious relationships. More than five; fewer than ten. (About five years ago we hired a part-timer from the local community college. She had a tendency to share _way_ too much information about her private life at the drop of a hat, and I was both fascinated and appalled to discover that after joining the sexual revolution in her sophomore year in high school (I wasn't even allowed to _date_ at that age!) she had had more partners in five years than I had had in over thirty. She had had more partners in the prior _two_ years, for that matter.) So I don't want to come off like Rhoda Roundheels, but I have a pretty good idea what goes on in the bedroom. I know what good sex is. (Unfortunately, I know what mediocre and even bad sex is, too.) I even know what great sex is.

Well, I thought I did, anyway.

Clothes ended up in a pile by the bed—well, his clothes, anyway, since most of mine now decorated the living room couch—and he had no objections to slipping beneath the _Pinky_ quilt. I joined him, and he pulled me close, molding our bodies together. We'd done plenty of exploring up to now but there's a big difference between that and being totally naked in bed with the man you love. Even if all he's doing is holding you.

And that's all he did for a while. Hold me. Hold me, slowly stroke my back, rub his cheek against the top of my head. The relaxing, comforting things you hope for after you've made love (as opposed to kiss, roll over, snore). Only Ducky was serving them up as an appetizer, not for 'afters.' I smiled and kissed his chest; I had a feeling snuggling was part of every course at his table.

I reached behind him and slowly worked the drawer out of the left-hand nightstand and pulled out the condom packets. Ducky smiled. "Six?" His smile grew. "Optimistic much?"

"We don't have to use them _all_—well, not tonight." My look was plain: I don't see this as a one-night-stand.

"True." He stroked my face, cupping my cheek and turning me toward him for a kiss. "I love how you kiss."

I grinned. "Funny. I was just thinking, 'I love how _you_ kiss.'"

"Our minds do seem to run in the same path."

"Amazing." The last syllable disappeared in a gasp; his hand had quickly fluttered from my cheek to my hip, slipping between my legs. Another sharply drawn breath as he very lightly stroked me, just brushing his fingertips back…. and forth. Our minds were definitely running in the same path.

I already mentioned my long-held theory about smiles and laughs equating to kisses. I have another theory: a man who's a good kisser—I mean a _really_ good kisser—is going to be talented with other, ah, oral pleasures, shall we say. I'm usually right about things like that (even if I miss the clues that the gentleman in question is no gentleman).

Holy, shit. Sometimes I'm really, _really_ right.

Surprise number one… not a surprise: he likes foreplay. Lots of foreplay. Not just the 'yeah, yeah, honey, I like it' that some guys (a _lot_ of guys) give you in the hopes that after a couple of times you'll shut up about it. He is more than willing to spend plenty of time snuggling and cuddling and kissing and touching and building a slow, hot fire. He is really, really interested in it.

And he is really, really good at it.

We spent quite a bit of time letting our fingers do the walking—ah, talking. Sure, we'd had several (mucho several) make-out sessions up until now, but this was different. This one was for all the marbles.

Don't ask me how many times I envisioned our first time making love; I have a bookkeeper to take care of high numbers for me. Sometimes you picture way, way better than what reality serves up. (The first _Star Trek_ movie comes to mind.) Sometimes you hedge your bets and you're blasted out of your seat when reality outdistances your dreams like Secretariat at the Triple Crown. (The second _Star Trek_ movie comes to mind.)

I don't care how much time I had between meeting Ducky under the most awkward of circumstances and now—a month and a half, a season and a half, a year and a half. Wouldn't matter. No matter what I dreamed up, I wasn't remotely close to our first night together. And, cross my heart, I will never look at a porn movie the same way; women really can be brought to the point of screaming, bouncing-off-the-wall orgasms that rattle pictures and chip the paint.

Details available to the right parties under the right circumstances. Just don't tell my mother.

Not a surprise, number two: he's a gentleman. Ladies first. I didn't have to hint that I'd like to find out what oral sex would be like with him (from either side of the equation); I have a feeling it was kind of a given in the back of his mind. And… ladies are first.

And frequent.

Words are my living. I sell bound words, I use them to coax payments from some people and track down long-delayed orders from others; I can describe a dinner to the point that you can taste it over the phone and love hearing how one or another writer turns a child from a book hater to a book lover. I love words.

For the first time in a long, long time… I am without words. I can't come close to the feelings that rippled through my body, the feeling of—well, completeness that came with making love with Ducky. I've never felt so perfect. I wasn't just filled physically; I was filled emotionally, psychically, mentally.

I cried.

Ducky held me, not asking, "What's wrong?" every two seconds. He knew it wasn't a matter of something being wrong—but something being right. I clung to him like a drowning swimmer to her rescuer—and I kind of was, and he kind of was. This was the beautiful, perfect moment that people romanticize your very first time ever having sex into. I remember that first time—it wasn't for me. It wasn't for most of the people I know. But now—now, it was.

(Please. How many people ride a two-wheeler perfectly the first time out? Training wheels don't count.)

I rubbed my cheek tiredly against his chest. I love listening to the beat of his heart. Steady. Strong. Soothing. "Feeling adventurous?"

He laughed, a nice rumble under my ear. "_How_ adventurous?"

"I have a waterbed in the spare bedroom. I like to sleep on it during the summer."

"Ah—I'll pass. For now. Next summer… who knows?" He kissed the top of my head. "I'll just say it's been many, many years since I made love in a waterbed. My balance might be… questionable."

"We'll work up to that."

He hugged me with one arm and tugged the quilt up with his other hand (we had tossed it aside when we got too rambunctious). "I look forward to the 'working up.'"

"So do I."

I fell asleep to the tune of his heart and the gentle stroking of my hair.

* * *

I knew he was awake before I opened my eyes.

We'd changed positions during our few hours of sleep—now Ducky lay half-sprawled over me, his head nestled between my breasts. (I liked it. His hair is really soft, like a silky kitten.) One hand was curved over the side of my ribcage and his thumb was brushing over my skin, barely moving an inch to and fro.

I gave a long, deep, contented sigh. The thumb stilled. "Did I awaken you?"

"Nah." My voice was as soft as his, even though there was nobody to disturb. Foot hadn't even yowled to get in all night. (All night being from ten 'til three.) "Just… enjoying."

"Enjoying?"

"Yeah. Best teddy bear I've ever slept with."

He snorted faintly. "I've never been called a teddy bear," he said drily. "Far from it."

"Oh, you might be a tough nut at work…" I ran the tip of my finger over the curve of his cheek. "But you're a big, marshmallow teddy bear inside." I hugged him lightly. "I happen to be very fond of teddy bears."

"Good." He twisted around to drape an arm just below my chest and prop his chin on it. "In that case, I don't mind being called a 'teddy bear.'"

I wriggled down and kissed him. "Teddy bear," I teased.

He grinned and growled lightly—not as dangerous-sounding as a polar bear, definitely more the teddy variety. I giggled at his silliness; he peppered an amazing number of kisses over my breasts, then swooped back up to kiss the curve of my neck he knows so very well. I sighed and rubbed against him; the night was going to be long… and fun.

It was a lovely evening. Thanks for asking.

* * *

-2-


	3. Chapter 3: Woodcut

**CHAPTER THREE—WOODCUT**

_**WOODCUT**__—Illustrations produced when the original printing plate was engraved on a block of wood. One of the oldest methods of printing, dating back to 8th century China._

* * *

I won't say I was badgered or blackmailed into going to Ducky's for Christmas so much as begged and beseeched. Abby actually tugged my hand like a 6' toddler, whining, "But you _have_ to come for Christmas! You missed Thanksgiving! We have a great dinner, Ducky does ham and turkey we have a Secret Santa exchange at the office but we also do Secret Santa just for our team and you're part of the team, well, you're part of Ducky, his mom is there, well, it's his house, of course, she's there, but Ducky even does stocking for all of us, even for his mom, you have to—" (Stockings—that much I knew; I'd been helping him buy trinkets and toys for the past weeks.)

It's hard to stand up to a whining child. It's even harder when that child is a head taller than you and has a wall full of degrees. "_Pleeeeeeease?_"

Oh, man. I was a goner. "Okay. I'll be there."

"Oh, good!" She actually clapped her hands and I laughed. "I already put your name in for Secret Santa ages ago and pulled out a name for you. I was kinda starting to worry. It's only a week!"

I resisted the temptation to roll my eyes. I was considering Christmas only because of Ducky. He had apparently had a rift with Agent Gibbs earlier this year, and the frost had only recently thawed. For the benefit of my beloved Ducky and someone he considered his best friend… sure. I'd do it. "Thanks, Abby. Do you have a hint list? A couple of the guys are hard to shop for."

"Tell me about it! Yeah, I put ideas on the back of the cards." She shoved a slightly shopworn red and green envelope in my hand. "See you there if not before. Gotta go!" She skipped out the door and I laughed again. She really was fun to have around—if a trifle exhausting at times. I tore open the envelope and pulled out the card. On the one side was printed _I HAVE NO IDEA!!!!!_ I snorted a laugh. Great. Whole lot of help _she_ is. I turned the card over to read the name.

_GIBBS_

It figures.

* * *

Ducky joined me for Christmas Eve dinner at Ray and Barb's (our family has always celebrated Christmas Eve instead of Christmas Day, something started from way back when my grandfather was editor of the Maryland Daily Clarion; he always worked Christmas, and the Christmas Eve tradition just filtered down the family line). It was his first family dinner, and everyone from my parents down to my youngest nephew seemed to like him. A lot. (For my mother, 'like' was 'adored.' She thought he was absolutely delightful.) My parents had been pretty stunned over David's murder and the ripples that spread out from it, but my mother found the fact that David never met any members of the family, 'telling.' She found the fact that Ducky was at a family function only two months into our relationship, 'beyond telling.' Me, she wasn't telling squat.

Ducky and I had exchanged our gifts that morning and I was wearing two of his presents: a whisper soft cashmere sweater in pale lavender-blue and a cloisonné pin of a Siamese cat. The eyes of the cat matched the sweater perfectly. We were well attuned, gift-wise (among other ways)—he was wearing the dark blue sweater I'd given him (it was the first time I'd seen him without a bowtie; I was so used to the bowtie it looked a little off-kilter, but in nice way, too) and I could see the chain from his pocket watch curving from his belt loop to his pocket. It was one of those odd finds at an estate sale—about 150 years old, still with fobs, seals and winding keys, in perfect running condition—and the cover had an engraving of Balmoral Castle. When he opened the box, he was left speechless.

I spent the night at Ducky's (another Christmas present, in my opinion); the next morning we had a delightful breakfast with his mother, who was nicer to me than she'd ever been. We'd gotten along pretty well since we first met, but she was almost glowing in her affections.

Clue. Neon sign. Clue.

Dinner was, of course, delicious. Ducky opted for an early afternoon meal, with stockings and Secret Santa gifts in the afternoon, seconds and dessert around six. (For the heartier appetites, _thirds_ and dessert.) Mrs. Mallard retired while we traded gifts and stories over cocoa and hot rum punch.

Abby's Secret Santa had found her a strange gift—a nightgown that looked like my great-grandma's flannel nightie, but when you looked closely the flowers were actually small groups of skills and crossed bones. She loved it.

Ziva received a miniature indoor herb garden and gourmet cooking oils. Turns out she's an enthusiastic cook. She, too, was delighted by her gift.

I tried not to bite my lip when Gibbs slipped a thumb under the tape on the back seal of his box. I mean, what do you get for a guy who builds boats in his basement and live on nothing but coffee? Ship in a bottle? Five shares in a Colombian plantation? He's harder to buy for than my Uncle Phil who gets restaurant gift cards from everyone, every year. Even my Aunt Miriam.

"Oh, wow, that's old," Jimmy Palmer, Ducky's assistant, was first to speak.

"Yes. It is." Gibbs' voice was barely audible.

It was a framed shadowbox. The central piece was a folded page titled _Programme for the Evening's Events_ from the Marine Corps "birthday" on November 10, 1837—well, most of the page, anyway. A tintype of three Marine comrades in dress uniform, dated 1897, overlapped the most damaged corner of the paper. In the opposite corner was a patch from a very battered jacket (I'd found it at an Army/Navy store)—it was a curved piece of embroidered fabric (the clerk called it a "rocker") and it read SNIPER. (That Gibbs had been a sniper I had managed to get from Ducky.) And in the center was something I'd held onto since high school, something I'd kept through all my moves, something I'd hung onto despite the sadness it brought me when I looked at it: a POW bracelet engraved _LCpl Shawn R. Pierce 2-13-69_. He wasn't listed on The Wall… but he never came home. I guess the government thinks he never existed.

I was scared to death that this would be the totally wrong thing to give him, that it would stir up bad memories (even though Ducky told me that he, not Gibbs, had served in Viet Nam). But a part of me thought Gibbs had an appreciation of history, and his loyalty to the Corps might put this in the "win" category.

I held my breath.

He shook his head. "This is incredible." I can tell bullshit thanks and enthusiasm (the aforementioned Aunt Miriam is an avid knitter and gives gifts with wild abandon; _avid_ is not necessarily _good_, but we love her too much to say anything). Gibbs was not faking it. He glanced around the group, his eyes lingering on me for a second longer. "Thank you, Santa. It's great. I love it."

Phew. Score one for the scruffy kid. Hurdle jumped.

Santa was very nice to Tony DiNozzo. Apparently he's a huge fan of _Magnum, P.I_.—Santa found a Detroit Tigers ball cap and managed to get it autographed by Tom Selleck. Tony was handling it like it was the Holy Grail.

We got to my box. Heavy li'l sucker. I slipped off the ribbon and pulled off the lid—then grinned. What better for a bookaholic bookseller than… bookends. Nice, heavy dark wood, with—I started to chuckle. Ducks. On the end of each bookend, carved ducks, ducks in bas-relief, and ducks in careful inlay work. They were impressive. "These are perfect. Beyond perfect. Santa, these are… amazing. Thank you." I glanced up at Ducky—he was sitting behind me on the couch and I was resting against his leg. For a second he glanced away, and then back, his eyes flicking toward Gibbs. Yep—the guy who builds boats in his basement (what's up with _that_?) also makes bookends. Very pretty bookends. And from the decoration on the bookends, approved of his best friend's choice of flame.

Hurdle two jumped. Cautiously.

Being such a formal crowd, once gifts were opened and stockings emptied we converged in the kitchen, getting in Ducky's way while he got the plum pudding turned out on the platter and drenched in brandy. A huge bowl contained something he called "hard sauce," an accompaniment that was a mix of butter, powdered sugar and vanilla and shoved into the fridge to, well, harden. (I accused him of trying to kill us all and increase his workload; he just kissed me and said, "It's the holidays, live a little. Besides, your cholesterol levels are just fine.") I had to admit—it was yummy.

Mrs. Mallard joined us in the kitchen, having awakened form her afternoon nap. She looked around in mild confusion. "Donald…?"

"You're just in time, Mother." He hurried over and gave her a light hug. "I was just going to get you. We're about to light the pudding."

"How lovely." Gibbs earned a gazillion points in my book when he gently led her into the dining room and toward a seat at the head of the table. And he didn't bat an eyelash when she repeatedly called him "Matthew." Abby managed to retain her correct name, but Jimmy became "Leonard" (and she seemed to think he was the pool boy); Ziva was either "dear girl" (said with an extremely puzzled look) or "Lisa" (something that made McGee blush every time for some reason). At least she got my name right on a regular basis. Of course, the fact that I spent the night on an equally regular basis had a bit to do with that. Her eyes lit on me and she reached past "Matthew" to grasp my hand. "Cassandra! Dearest! How lovely to see you!" I got a warm fuzzy feeling, even though it was sad that she didn't remember I'd been there all day and all the night before. "Are you expecting yet?" she stage whispered. Warm fuzzy froze.

I stood stock still, my eyes as wide open as my mouth. Abby pressed her lips together and looked like she was going to explode and someone stifled a giggle. From the kitchen came a crashing clatter and profound silence. _Thank god for Corelle_, I thought, followed quickly by, _hope it wasn't the plum pudding._ The silence stretched for ages.

"Now, Mrs. Mallard." Gibbs patted her shoulder. "You would be the first person your son would tell, wouldn't you?"

"Oh." She looked mildly startled. "That's right." She smiled brightly and took her seat. "Would you ask the pool boy to get me a drink?" she said in the same loud whisper. Gibbs exchanged a glance with Jimmy, who melted into the other room. "Thank you, Matthew, dear. When I was in Southampton last year…" Gibbs listened intently as she wandered from story to story.

_Jethro Gibbs… I heart you._

* * *

Even thought it means fighting four dogs instead of one cat, I like cuddling in Ducky's bed better than mine. The headboard has no gap, so you can comfortably sit up and read without losing things under the bed. I've lost countless books, magazines, snacks; even pillows have slipped to the ground. (Even Foot—when he was younger and much, much smaller.) Every few months I pull the bed out and do an excavation underneath. (Foot got out on his own.)

Ducky half lay back, propped up by pillows, (I was half propped up by Ducky.) He stroked my back slowly, lightly; I was in that lovely semiconscious state where I could either drift off to sleep or start a long, slow burn of arousal, depending on where he chose to go.

He dropped a kiss on the top of my head. "Thank you for being so understanding about Mother."

Third option: wakeful discussion.

"Ducky—what's up with her? Not what's up, but—what's this baby obsession? When she headed off to bed, she patted my hand and said, 'Don't worry, dear, maybe next month.'"

He made a funny noise, kind of a laugh, kind of a groan. "Mother… has not given up hope for grandchildren."

"Ah. What about you?"

He signed reflectively. "On the one hand… it would be nice. I do enjoy children. And I like to think I'd be a reasonably good parent. But on the other hand… if I fathered a child now, I would be eighty or thereabouts when that child learned to drive, and I don't think those two demographics should be in a vehicle with a learner's permit between them."

I shivered. "Ooh. Hadn't thought of that one. Good point."

"Do you ever regret not having children?"

Um. How heavy was this conversation going to get? "Well… once in a while. But then I realize I lead a crazy life. I pick up and take off across the country for book sales and auctions at the drop of a hat. Sometimes I don't get home for days because I'm working nonstop. Hard enough to do that with a cat. Harder to do that with a kid. Or kids."

"Or… run away for a romantic weekend…?"

Conversation improving. "Romantic weekend?"

"We could pop up to—oh, New York…?"

That clicked something in my memory. "Hey. Next summer, Book Expo is in New York. Would you like to come with?"

"What is a 'Book Expo?'"

"It's like… a… medical convention for booksellers."

"That gives rise to some odd mental images."

"I can imagine. No—the publishers and reps have booths, they give out advance copies and uncorrected proofs of coming books, and all sorts of goodies; authors do panels and signings… And there are wonderful restaurants, shows… _Project_ _Runway_ might be shooting…"

"Hmm. Sounds interesting. I'd love to. Join you, I mean. Now… as for that romantic weekend for a closer date… I know of a lovely b-and-b in Pennsylvania…?"

"I like it already."

January is apparently slow time for the b-and-b industry, because Ducky got us a reservation for the weekend after the New Year. It was a beautiful old converted Civil War farmhouse near enough to the Amish area that they got all sorts of great foods and each room boasted hand-sewn quilts. The bed was old, solid wood and wonderfully comfy. Sure, we had fireplaces and fresh snow at home—but this wasn't home. (Though we did discuss Bermuda in the spring—time to start toning the thighs…!) We didn't get crazy or try things best left to inventive porn writers, but it was nice not having work, family or other disruptions. Just Ducky and me. Just us. Together.

Just… us.

I started to get edgy by the end of the month.

November.

December.

January.

Three months.

How many of my relationships had made it past the 90-day mark? Not a lot. How many of them were worth carrying past that point? Even fewer. So being in a relationship with Ducky—gentle, caring, intelligent and, well, spunky (for lack of a better word)—was just a shade unnerving. Even a good thing can get you a little… tense.

We had discussed Valentine's Day long before the fact. Duck's courtly gesture of roses and insanely expensive chocolates had appeared a couple of other times—not always roses, not always truffles, but sudden, unexpected things that made me smile, blush and/or get all goopy inside. Sometimes practical—a really nice cast iron Dutch oven when he saw my old standby had a replacement handle made of a couple of wire hangers, for example. Sometimes sort of practical—he justified the evening of a private massage therapist for the two of us by the fact that he'd had a particularly stressful week and he'd witnessed me wincing while reaching to a top shelf. Sometimes totally impractical. (Those were the most fun.) But we both agreed that the whole captive audience demand that caused $90 a dozen roses that had been $25 the week before was absurd. I wasn't being coy when I said that any woman who demanded roses on Valentine's Day was so fiscally irresponsible a sensible man should run for the border. I meant it. But I had a feeling he still had something planned. So did I. I just didn't know _what_ I had planned.

Even though we had plans for Book Expo, I still had a nagging fear in the back of my mind. This wasn't going to last. It couldn't last. Even though I wanted—desperately wanted it to last… it wouldn't. I just couldn't be that lucky.

A week before the deadline (what a perfect word), I was still at a loss. Other than my long-ago fiancé, I had never been "together" at this time of year. Back in the day, young men gave young ladies Valentine's Day gifts; about mid-20th Century, the gifts started being reciprocal. Being a bookseller long before the fact, I gave Jeff a book of poetry every year. A different book each time, of course. But Ducky had plenty of poetry collections. Besides… I wanted to be at least a _little_ original.

In desperation I fled to the mall, my least favorite place in the world.

Everyone was having a Valentine's Day sale. And I mean everyone. Not just candy and flowers, but candle shops (hmm, that could be fun…), Victoria's Secret (duh, that was a given), Frederick's of Hollywood (I was _not_ going in there, no way, no how)… and some places that made no sense (shoe shops, REI Camping—Black and Decker Outlet (say, _what_?), Sharp's Cutlery, _all_ the toy stores, Canfield Luggage—)…

I stopped in my tracks.

Okay… maybe malls weren't so bad after all.

Ducky called the day before Valentine's Day, sounding a bit rushed. "I won't be able to join you for dinner, darling. We've caught a rather ugly case and will be working quite late."

"I understand," I said quickly. And I did. I knew that if Ducky and I did part, it wouldn't be a matter of awkward lies before the fact; while Ducky was a gentleman and kind to a fault, he also wouldn't string along a relationship just to avoid the pain of goodbye. I could plunk down hard cash on the line that he really was working late. "So it's a good thing we're bucking the trend and doing our own Valentine's dinner on Friday?"

"Decidedly," he said with great passion. He sighed. "Thank you for being so understanding," he said, his voice gentler.

Why wouldn't I? Of course, maybe he had run into women in the past who were less accepting. "How late will you be?"

This sigh was tinged with frustration. "Very."

"Would you like me to check on your mom?"

"Oh, Sandy…" I could hear his smile over the phone and could picture his beautiful blue eyes. I suddenly felt all warm and smushy. "You needn't—"

"Oh, Ducky," I mimicked, "I know you're so careful to let her know when you're going to be away for the night. And that it distresses her when you don't come home when planned. I'd be happy to. Maybe she'd like company for dinner…?"

Ducky is a very bright man. I wouldn't be off to say brilliant, even. He knows that I like his mother. He knows that his mother has been gently driving me bananas about getting pregnant and he has been deflecting her questions and comments with grace, tact and determination. So he darn well knows that for me to offer to stay with her without someone to run interference (the night nurse is a good nurse, but she's no Oprah) was a pretty big deal. A declaration of true love.

"We were going to make manicotti, right?"

"Yes, but—"

"Did you go shopping? Is everything in the kitchen?"

"Yes, but—"

"Shall I keep a plate warm for you?"

"No." He gave me a rueful laugh. "I'll forage in the refrigerator. I'm likely to be quite late. But I thank you, my dear."

"My pleasure. Honest." I dropped my voice, even though there was nobody to overhear. "I'll leave your Valentine's present on your bed."

"And when you come to work tomorrow, yours shall be waiting on your desk." Now I was really glad I'd given Ducky a key to the store.

"Do I get a hint?"

"Do I?"

I pursed my lips. "Well, I guess we'll both be surprised, then."

"I am. Frequently."

* * *

Mrs. Mallard was delighted that I had 'popped in' for dinner. (The nurse was ecstatic—it meant she wasn't being pressed into service as an emergency cook.) Victoria 'helped' me fix dinner; it was reminiscent of cooking with my nieces and nephews. But between the two of us we managed to get stuffed manicotti in the oven and a salad in the bowl. I didn't feel up to tackling dessert from scratch, too, but I found a box of brownie mix on the shelf, jazzed it up with a half-full bag of mint chips and a jar or macadamia nuts and called it good.

Mrs. Mallard (I wasn't yet comfortable with calling her Victoria—to her face, anyway) kept up a bright, if disjointed, conversation throughout dinner. I admit I wasn't paying full attention to her (come on, the way she leapfrogged around, it was almost impossible). Much like the cooking, our one-on-one dinner conversation was reminiscent of babysitting Sharon and her siblings over the years: listen with half an ear, show polite animation and say "mm-hmm" a lot… and hope you didn't just agree to the kid taking your car on a coast to coast road trip. (One year, Sharon's older sister, Allison, caught me in an off-guard moment and I agreed to buy 250 boxes of Girl Scout cookies. Not 25—250. And she got me on tape, too.)

So I learned to pay attention—to the kids, anyway.

Foolish me.

"—lovely red hair—" She reached out a shaky hand and lightly flipped a lock of my hair.

Red? Not so much any more. "Thank you."

"Donald had such beautiful, golden curls as a child," she said wistfully.

"Do you have pictures from when he was younger?"

"Oh, yes! Would you like to see them?"

"I'd love to." No lie.

She cocked her head. "I wonder if the baby will have red hair."

I forced a smile. "Mrs. Mallard… I am not pregnant."

She reached over and patted my slight pudge from too many dinners and desserts cooked by her son. "Oh, you can't fool me, dear! So—are you having a summer baby?"

The nurse had (thankfully) disappeared to draw a bath for my interrogator. I gritted my teeth and my smile verged on a grimace. "I'm _not_ _pregnant_."

She just smiled sweetly at me.

I skipped the brownies.

* * *

Ducky was the cutest freaking kid imaginable. The kind of munchkin that would even make Cruella DeVille go, "Awwwwww" and chuck him under the chin instead of off the cliff. Great big blue eyes and blonde waves that made you want to reach through the picture and twine them around your fingers.

_Shriek!!!_

No, no, no!!! I'm coming down with Baby Rabies! Save me, someone, save me!

Okay—thinking Ducky is the cutest baby on the planet (he was, he was) isn't the same as wanting to run out and fling money at Babies R Us. But I could see why his mother was so hot to continue the family line. Too bad she hadn't consulted her son about this.

And not that I wanted to give up my relationship with Ducky… but, dang, the gene pool would have been improved if he'd gone off and had kids along the way. Still trying to envision myself as a stepmother (shut up, Disney), I waited until Mommy was sound asleep before heading out to the van for Ducky's present. I propped them up on the bed and shook my head; oh, I hoped he'd find this as cute as I did.

His bed was awfully appealing… maybe just a quick nap. He did say he'd be home late…

* * *

"Someone's been sleeping in _my_ bed…"

I blinked, stretched and rolled over. "Omigod, what time is it?"

"Late. Just past eleven." He pulled loose his tie and neatly put it away.

I sat up and crossed my legs, combing through my hair. "Man. I really sacked out. Since… eight?"

He smiled as he unbuttoned his shirt. "Mother tire you out?"

"Yeah. We had a footrace to the local dance hall. She won."

"You let her win." He was trying to peer around me; I ducked and dodged to hide his present and he shook his head. "Are you… spending the night?" He looked at me hopefully.

"You want me to?" I asked demurely, batting my eyes.

He stopped in mid-motion of stripping off his undershirt. "If you have to ask," he said in grave tones, "you should _definitely_ stay."

I grinned and made quick work of getting out of my clothes. We both had several changes of clothing at each other's houses; Ducky's first overnight visit resulted in an emergency load of laundry the next morning (due to Foot's extreme displeasure at my guest). Ducky had been philosophical about it—one, he was a pet owner and two, fresh clothes out of the dryer beat stale clothes from the day before any day. (Foot accomplished a lot when we were in the kitchen eating brunch.)

"Dinner was wonderful. Especially the brownies." Belt went on a hook in the closet; slacks went into the hamper. I tried not to look too disgruntled. "What—you didn't like them?" he asked in surprise.

"I didn't try them…" I 'pinched my inch' and quirked an eyebrow. "Apparently… I look _pregnant_."

"Oh." He winced and set shoetrees in his shoes, then climbed into bed with me. "I assure you, my dear, you do _not_ look pregnant. You could be thinner than a heroin-chic runway model and Mother would still see a baby bump. _You_ do _not_ look _pregnant_." He tickled his fingertip under my chin. "You do look gorgeous… and sexy… and cuddly…" he purred.

The man knows just what to say. And how to say it. I let him coax me closer for a kiss. "You were a cute baby."

He looked pained. "Someday I shall burn those photographs."

"Don't you dare!" I said hotly. "I'll throw myself on the fire!"

"Thank you, Jeanne d'Arc." He stopped his advance. "What's behind you?"

"Oh!" I sat up. "Close your eyes."

He gave me a rakish look up and down "I'd rather keep them open." I glowered; he complied. I slipped his gift—one gift, two parts—onto his lap; he looked pleasantly surprised. "Soft." Eyes still shut, he let his fingers flutter over them. "Very soft."

I drew a shaky breath, partly nervous over his awaited response, partly aroused by the sight of his fingers ever so gently running over his gift. I knew how wonderful those fingers felt and couldn't wait for him to change venues.

He cracked open an eye and peered at his lap. "Oh, good heavens." His smile broadened. "Where…?" He began to chuckle. "Where did you find them?"

"You like them?" I smiled nervously, chewing my lip.

"They are… adorable." He grinned. "Adorable." He held up the soft golden bear. "Where did you find them?" he repeated.

"I… made them. There's a make your own doll and bear shop at the mall…"

"Glasses… bow tie," he chuckled. He cocked his head. "Do I _always_ wear a blue shirt?"

"Well… most of the time. But that's because you look so darn gorgeous in blue."

"And a white lab coat… it even says NCIS. And my name." He laughed roundly. "And sneakers!"

"You said you always wear them in the lab—"

"Perfect to every detail. And—my, my, it seems Dr. Bear…" He gasped dramatically. "Has… a paramour."

I snickered. "I almost dressed her a lá _My Fair Lady_. But—"

"I like her fashion statement. Jeans, lace blouse, sandals, flowers in her… hair? Er, fur?"

"Channeling my inner hippie."

"They're very sweet. _This_ teddy bear will enjoy the company." He turned to the side and set them on the nightstand, then turned back to me. He leaned forward to kiss me… then stopped. "Wait." He reached back and ceremoniously turned the bears to face the wall. "Better."

I giggled. "Afraid they'll take photos?"

"Afraid they'll critique."

I slipped my hands behind his neck. "Not to worry. They'll be jealous."

"Jealous, eh?" He tipped his head, leaned over and gave me a sweet, slow kiss.

"Very jealous," I finally managed to breathe.

"Mmmmh." His next kiss carried me down to the mattress. "Oh… much better than the brownies…"

Agreed.

* * *

And what, may you ask, did I find on my desk the next day? Along the lines of the miniature Zen sand and rock garden we'd seen at the PBS store at Christmas, Ducky had crafted a miniature backyard garden, perfect for a doll house (if I had one; now, of course, I was tempted). Tiny flagstone paths, miniature wrought iron table and chairs, and absolutely detail-perfect blue flowers edging the walkways. Blue like his eyes… and rather familiar. Bluebells? Geraniums? (Geraniums come in blue, right?) I wandered over to the bookcase of gardening books and pulled out a book of color plates and flipped through the pages. When I found the right page, I grinned.

Forget-me-nots.

* * *

Bermuda never happened. (Life got in the way. Oh, well…) But we had wonderful weekends together—and some weekends in the middle of the week—at Mallard Manor or Chez Talmadge. Ducky was surprised that I preferred staying at his place. He had been told that women preferred making love in their own bed; when I asked who told him that, he reluctantly said, "Gibbs…" I told him that while it was true as a generalization, it was not always true. In this case, not only did I like the construction of his bed, I know he worried a bit when he left his mother alone (nurse notwithstanding). Foot could survive on his own far better than the Corgis. The only drawback was his mother—while I liked her and got along well with her, she still periodically hinted about grandchildren and asked if I was pregnant. By Easter, I snapped.

"Please. _Please_, Ducky, talk to your mother," I begged. "Last week, she hinted that maybe I had a 'problem' and I should see a doctor."

He sighed. Poor dear; it wasn't his fault. "I'll try."

I gave him a hug and cuddled close. We were at my place for the weekend, waiting for the movie to start. (His cable company didn't get ClassixFlix and they were running an Errol Flynn marathon that Saturday night.) "I love you," I said hopefully.

He smiled down at me. "And I love you." He looked at me more closely. "Are you feeling well? You look a little peaked."

"Just running short on sleep."

"Tonight, we should just sleep, then."

I pouted. "No fair."

He chuckled and kissed the top of my head. "Doctor's orders."

"I'd rather 'play doctor,' Doctor."

He shook his head. "Right after the movies—bed. Sleep."

I sighed. But I _was_ tired. So tired I barely made it through the first half of _Robin_ _Hood_. I awoke around two; the TV still played softly and Ducky was asleep in the corner of the couch, my head on his lap. He awakened the moment I moved. "Sorry."

"Quite alright." He stretched, wincing faintly. "I'm glad you got _some_ sleep."

"Since I did… you wanna go _not_ sleep?" I gave him my best suggestive look.

"Aren't you hungry?" I gave him a really suggestive look and he sighed in exasperation. "You barely ate anything."

My stomach growled very faintly—and did a flip-flop. The idea of food was uninspiring, to say the least. "Nothing tasted right." I sounded whiny even to my own ears.

He stroked my hair as if I were the child I sounded like. "Maybe you're coming down with something."

"God, I hope not. The Book Bash is next weekend."

"Well, if you are… sleep is what you need." He patted my arm, urging me to stand up.

Sighing, I did—then sat back down, hard, when the room sparkled and grayed out. I lost several seconds, coming back to a concerned face inches from my own. "Whoa."

"Sandy—are you all right?"

"Yeah. Just a little loopy." To his credit, he made no snarky comment in response.

"Don't move." I had no trouble complying. The idea of moving was right on a par with eating. Unfortunately, the second idea was on Ducky's agenda. He returned from the kitchen a few minutes later. "Here."

Buttered toast, tea and a couple of wedges of Laughing Cow cheese. Nice, tame food. Blech. He gave me a look—a look that said he was going to listen to no arguments and would stand there like an Easter Island statue until I ate every damned bite. May as well get it over with. I dutifully ate every damned bite.

True to his word (threat, in my opinion) when we retired, we slept. All we did was sleep. But sleeping with Ducky is nice, even if all you're doing is sleeping. He's warm and cuddly and that's all kinds of lovely.

I woke up before he did, enjoying the dim light, his slow, light snores and the funny whistle-squeak Foot makes in the spring making an interesting melody. (It had taken a while for Foot to forgive us, but now he slept curled against Ducky's side whenever he spent the night.) I was really wishing he hadn't coaxed (browbeat) me into that late night snack a few hours before; it wasn't sitting well. I grimaced; no, not well at all. I slipped from the bed and dashed for the spare bathroom, hoping the distance would muffle the noise.

Yeah, right. He was waiting in the living room when I emerged, tying the sash of his robe, the old tartan one he keeps at the foot of my bed, the one I like to wear to bed when he's not there. (I'm undecided if that sounds romantic, sappy, wimpy or childish. Vote is still out.) "I'm not surprised. You tossed and turned all night—what there was of it, anyway."

That surprised me. I thought I'd slept like a log.

"You really don't look well." He was more than sympathetic—he was actually concerned.

"You put the gypsy hex on me last night." I dragged myself to the couch and crawled onto it.

He covered me with my Mickey Mouse Christmas throw. "Poor baby…" He gently stroked my hair.

Baby. Baby? Oh, crap—_baby?!_ "Ducky… how intent is your mom on getting grandchildren?" He looked at me blankly. "She wouldn't… like… put holes in your condoms, would she?"

He shook his head. "She can't climb stairs very well."

That wasn't the answer I wanted to hear. "Would she?" I said more strongly.

"Of course not," he said stoutly and I felt immediately better. "At least… I _think_ not…"

It was actually a relief when I woke up at lunchtime with a fever. It was just the flu. It was just a gypsy hex, as opposed to something that had Ducky staring at me apprehensively for the intervening hours. (I didn't have to look around. When I woke up and turned over every ten minutes or so… I just knew. I could feel it. And when he saw the digital thermometer readout hit 103.1 worry warred with a flash of relief.)

Though I did feel really bad when I was up and happy as a lark Tuesday—and Ducky was by then sick as a dog. But I made him homemade chicken soup and spent every night taking care of his mom and playing nursemaid to him and he was up for the United Maryland Charities Book Bash sale the following weekend. And he bought a brand new box of condoms… just in case.

* * *

-3-


	4. Chapter 4: Uncorrected Proof

**CHAPTER FOUR—UNCORRECTED PROOF**

_**UNCORRECTED PROOF**__—A pre-publication printing intended for editorial use, or occasionally to be sent out for review. Usually issued in plain colored wrappers._

* * *

We toyed with the idea of driving to New York for Book Expo that Memorial weekend but I really, really hate driving in New York. Words cannot express how much I hate driving in New York. How much do I hate driving in New York? I love driving D.C. rush hour traffic in comparison.

After great discussion, we decided to make an almost two-week vacation of it. A few days before, a few days after, the expo sandwiched between… Ray promised to feed Foot, and I knew Valerie could handle anything at the store—Evelyn had been right about her. Ducky made careful arrangements for his mother's care, and both Abby and Jimmy Palmer promised to stop by at least every other day, if not, more. We were good to go.

Our flight to Canada was uneventful. (That alone should have made me suspicious.) We spent a leisurely three days in Montreal (putting Ducky's excellent language skills and my remnants of High School French (I passed—barely) to the test) and hopped our flight to Chicago. Chicago? Yes, Chicago. For one thing, there is a medical examiner in Chi-town who's a friend of Ducky's who had been saying for years, "Let's go out if you're ever in town." Due to the vagaries only known only to the airline industry, we were paying less to go from Canada to New York via Chicago than we would a direct flight from Canada to New York. A _lot_ less. So we opted for breakfast with Quint and Marci and a longer flight.

_Ba_-dum.

_Ba_-dum.

_Ba_-dum, _ba_-dum, _ba_-dum…

Cue the ominous music. Sharks circling, yet? Just wait.

Quint and Marci Desmond were friends of Ducky's back in the day when he was M.E. in Hollywood and had kept in touch over the years. They had been bugging him to visit for ages. They took us to a really off the wall place by the airport called "The Egg and I"—they only served breakfast food around the clock (perfect for 6 a.m.) and had a round-the-clock comedy show playing for thirty minutes on the hour. I can't imagine doing a comedy routine at sunrise, but the gal cracking one-liners pulled it off in spades. She was a riot.

We were back at the airport in plenty of time. Eight o'clock arrived. They announced a slight delay for our flight and I spent the time competing with the comedian from the restaurant, telling Ducky about my air travel tales of woe. Sadly… he doubted my veracity.

"Let's see. I flew from New Mexico to Maryland with screaming one year old twins sitting behind me the whole time. Every single minute. Non stop. The twins, not the flight. We got off the plane, mom shoved the kids at her husband and snarled, 'I want a divorce.'"

"Surely she wouldn't! You're joking," he laughed.

"If I'm lyin', I'm dyin'. Let's see… We were on a flight to—oh, gosh, where… Oh, yeah. We were in L.A., heading for Hawaii. It was one of those package deals, their own planes, their own condos, whole shebang. And they said we had a 'small mechanical problem.' So we sat on the tarmac at LAX. And sat. And sat. And sat. Now, the crew can work only so many hours before they're in violation of federal law, right? So we sat there and sat there—and they reached the kiss off point where either we take off or replace the cabin crew. Well, they didn't have a replacement crew—we're talking a real cheap company, Ducky. And that plane was _not_ taking off." I leaned over to whisper, "They locked the door and pulled back the jet way."

He gasped. "Oh—_please_ tell me you're joking!" I shook my head. "That's—that's illegal."

"Tell me about it. The cockpit revolted. They said they wouldn't endanger the passengers and wouldn't help the company put the flight crew in risk of losing their jobs so even if the plane got cleared to take off, they weren't moving. Holy crap, people were screaming, yelling, throwing things—one woman had an honest-to-god psychotic meltdown, she was on meds because she was severely claustrophobic _and_ had a fear of crowds… and the meds wore off. She totally wigged out. _That_ was when they finally let us out."

"I wish you had told me your unfortunate aviation history _before_ we made our travel plans."

"Wait, wait—I haven't told you the best one—"

His favorite story was the one about the layover in a town where the airport had only two "name" airlines, both of them shuttles operated under the umbrella of the big name airlines. There were several homegrown fliers—personally, _Fly By Nite_ sounded interesting, but the less I knew about _BubbAAir/Olaf's Bait-n-Tackle/Aunt Edna's Homemade Kimchee, _the better. (I swear, it's true. Kimchee. And Bubba had obviously bought an old American Airlines biplane from decades ago and just worked around the old logo. The rest of the lettering—and they did manage to cram all of it on the side of the plane—was definitely home done. A little wobbly, and some drips from a couple of letters.) The airport had three cuisines—Aunt Edna's Café (pass—I don't care if she made the best kimchee in the world, to me that's an oxymoron, anyway), McDonald's and Taco Bell. The gift shop had five magazines (thee were _People, The Star_ and _The_ _National Enquirer_) and four books. Not just four titles—four _books_. I ended up reading a tawdry romance from cover to cover and discovering they had changed a lot since my junior-year fancy with Harlequins back in high school. A _lot_. (Ducky asked if I had taken notes from the book. I punched his arm.) He actually made me laugh over my horror tales.

We weren't laughing twelve hours later. But we _were_ still sitting at the airport.

Our 9:48 a.m. flight was delayed. The equipment needed for our flight was coming in from Cincinnati and had been late taking off. Fine. They were due in two hours. No other flights to JFK (unless we changed airlines and paid a fortune for the privilege) so we waited. The Cincinnati flight arrived… and was promptly taken off the field for repairs. (Bet that made the Cincinnati passengers feel great.) Anticipated repair time—by 2:00. Ducky called Quint; he and Marci met us in the airport for lunch.

2:00 came and went. No aircraft. Half of the passengers from our flight had already bailed for other airlines, muttering "refund" and "lawsuit" as they stomped past. Those of us who stuck it out and were polite (what the hell, Expo didn't start until the next day) got refund forms, fistfuls of travel vouchers, free drink passes and hotel comp cards. I called Ink48 and told them (in censored terms) what had happened. I grudgingly gave the okay to charge out that night's stay for the sake of keeping our reservation; come hell or high water, we'd be there at some point. At a quarter to six, Ducky shook his head. "I can't call Quint for dinner. He and Marci would never believe this. _I_ don't believe this."

"I'm sorry, sweetie…"

"It's not your fault."

"I just want a shower. I don't care about dinner, I want a shower." As Lorraine Bracco put it in _Medicine_ _Man_, 'I've been in these clothes for more than one dance.' I had an uncomfortable thought that the hand-dyed colors of my gauze blouse had transferred to my body, perhaps permanently.

The desk agent we'd become friends with overheard me. Ducky had earned her eternal gratitude earlier; he deflected a very drunk, very disorderly customer, taking him aside and telling him he was a doctor, and expressing grave concern over his health. He gave him a lot of fancy terms and slow headshakes and the ashen-faced man took off for parts unknown. "I didn't lie," he said in great innocence. "I merely told him his eyes are extremely bloodshot, his coordination is nil and his breath reeks of cheap booze. I just used language he couldn't readily translate."

So when Debbi heard me whine, she crooked her finger at us. We followed her down a hallway. "We don't tell everyone about this, but—we have an employee shower…"

Fears of misdirected luggage had prompted both of us to carry an overnight as carryon luggage. We blessed Debbi Talley and enjoyed hot, hot water and soap. I know when I emerged a half-hour later I felt more human as we waited for our incredibly delayed flight; I can only assume Ducky did, too. (He had verified that my torso didn't look like an India-print Easter egg, too. That was all he did, given the semi-public area we were in. Add sexually frustrated to my list of complaints.)

"Okay, folks, everyone who's still trying to get to New York… come on down."

Ducky and I exchanged uncomfortable looks as we shuffled with the small crowd toward the main desk. Debbi's coworker, a perky young man named Shane, held the microphone and sounded way too chipper. "Looks like y'all have two choices." (Yes, he said 'y'all.' He was pure Georgia peach, this boy.) "Now. We have a flight heading to JFK at 4 a.m. Guaranteed." There were some heavy sighs around us. "All you die-hards, we have the Marriott at our beck and call. Free short-term rooms, you can shower, change, take a nap, and we have a shuttle there and back and security will check us back through in the employee area, so no two hour wait in line. Or…" His grin grew larger. "All y'all can come home with me!" We all laughed. "No, seriously! In case it escaped your notice, Ah ahm from the beautiful city of 'lanta! And we have a flight heading to 'lanta tonight because of problems we had on that route earlier today, then it's goin' on to JFK for equipment swap out and will get there about the same time as our other flight. And Ah will be on that flight back home. You can either fly with your luggage—or meet it there."

"You want to go to the Marriott? Or beautiful 'lanta?" I asked.

"Well… if we take the Atlanta flight, we might feel as though we're accomplishing something, however infinitesimal." A couple of hours later, we dutifully trooped to the aircraft; there were only fifty people or so on the plane, and most of them disembarked in Atlanta and headed for the luggage carousels. We wandered the empty concourse for a couple of hours, then headed back to the plane.

Remember that Stephen King miniseries, where people fell asleep on a plane and woke up with everyone else… gone? This was close. There was nobody on the plane. Well, almost nobody. Pilot, copilot and navigator, one would hope. Four flight crew, ten passengers plus us. Three to one ratio meant very personalized service. And since it was now two in the morning (NY time, anyway), everyone should be asleep. (Hopefully, not the cockpit crew.)

"We're really heading to New York?" Ducky whispered.

I snuggled closer. "Better be. Expo starts this afternoon. We won't have time to play in the Big Apple until the end of the expo—except for going out at night."

He smiled wickedly. "Oh, I'm sure we'll have time to… play… in the Big Apple."

I love how he thinks.

The lights were out and almost nobody was home. It was a nice, dark cocoon in our back half of the plane; everyone else was sitting up in first class just for the thrill of sitting in first class. It was like a different country altogether. The flight attendants had fussed over us for a half hour, trying to coax us to join the others (apparently a good poker game was in the offing); we told them, in turn, that we were just fine being left alone, we wanted to nap on the flight to New York. They took the hint and left us alone.

"Hey."

"Mmh?"

"Is that your hand?" I whispered.

"It better be."

We didn't really need to whisper. With as far away as everyone else was and the laughs and hilarity from the game, we could have yelled and not raised notice. We were using our coats as blankets (who knows when those itchy blue blankets were last washed?) and had brought our own inflatable pillows (ditto for the hard lumps of foam they called pillows). Not as nice as our suite at the Ritz-Carleton in Montreal or the one waiting us at Kimpton's Ink48, but not too bad—'specially because of the company. "How many hands do you have?" I swear, he was touching me in seven places all at the same time. A talented lad, Dr. Donald Mallard is. I wriggled in my seat as he worked his hand under my shirt and caressed every inch of skin he could find.

"Such lovely breasts," he whispered. He made a soft, purring _hmmmmm_ and his breath tickled in my ear. I shivered.

I turned and was the recipient of a hot, deep kiss that almost blasted me out of my seat. "Jeez, Ducky," I finally gasped. "You're usually so… reserved in public."

"There's a certain… thrill… to possible discovery as opposed to necking in the middle of the National Mall." He slipped an arm behind my shoulders and pulled me close for another searing kiss. He rubbed the fingers of his other hand over the seam of my jeans, the one that ran right down my crotch line.

Turned on? You bet. Boy, howdy, was I getting turned on. So was Ducky. My hands were doing their own exploring and there was a nice, hard bulge south of his belt. "Going for Mile High Club membership?" I teased.

I have never seen such a lascivious look on his face. Wish I'd had a camera. "Want to risk it, my dear?"

It had never occurred to me, to be honest. I dunno, maybe it's a Y-chromosome thing, something a guy would think of. That doesn't mean I didn't like the idea… It could be interesting. Ducky was always more interested in long, slow lovemaking; while everyone was off in first class and the flight attendants hadn't bothered us in quite a while, that didn't mean someone might not stroll back from behind the iron gray curtain. We'd have to be quick.

Hmm. "Hmm…" He kissed his way down my throat, hands holding my breasts up for quick licks and suckling kisses. It was kind of a kicky idea…

The plane made a gentle bump. Huh. It we hit turbulence, we might get a visit from an attendant or two. Better hurry… I reached for the zipper on his pants. "Let's see just how coordinated you are, Dr. Mallard."

I wriggled around until I sort of lay across the three seats, my hand slipping his erection free. Mmmmm, yum. Oh, man, I wanted him. I wanted him like crazy.

And the feeling was mutual. He all but yanked my pants down to my knees—I was surprised he took the time to undo the zipper and snap. I couldn't move very far, but by angling my hips up he was able to slide into me and, oh, damn, it felt great. His thrusts were fast, deep, and his shaft tugged my swelling clitoris with every stroke. And the gentle rock of the plane on the air currents was nice, better than the waterbed. I was gasping, whimpering even, trying to stay as quiet as possible lest we catch the attention of anyone in the forward cabin. I grabbed at his back, hard, biting his arm to keep from screaming as I literally shook with an explosive climax. It was only a few moments before he came, deep and hot, unable or unwilling to stop the groan when he did.

"Holy shit, that was _good_," I panted. Fast sex had never been a favorite of mine, but there's always the exception.

He was breathing hard, too. "I agree," he said, giving me a long, slow kiss. "Of course… with you it's always good."

I grinned and kissed him on the nose. "We'd better put ourselves back together before anyone joins us."

"True," he said regretfully.

Far, far too late, I had a sudden flash of panic. This was the first time we hadn't used protection. A couple of times we'd come close, suddenly realizing we didn't have an available condom. We'd always just rolled with the punches, switching to other ways of pleasuring each other. We'd never been so flagrantly disregarding of the risk—until now.

Oh, hell. We'd be okay. There's only, what, three or four days a month when a woman can get knocked up. Now, if we were on a soap opera, of _course_ I'd get pregnant. But the odds were with us. I hoped. (They'd better be.)

Ducky kissed me, only his mouth holding me still while his hands tucked himself back away and fastened his slacks. "Welcome to the club," he murmured.

Welco— _Wait_. "You mean you—this isn't—"

He grinned. "I never kiss and tell."

When one of the stewardesses came back around four, we were innocently snuggled in the corner, his arm around my waist and my head on his shoulder, our clothing back where it belonged (if slightly rumpled). We told her we were just fine, thanks. Just fine. When she returned an hour later, Ducky's clothes were a little more disarranged and he had a wonderfully lazy, contented smile on his face. I probably looked smug, like the cat that swallowed the canary… or something. We decided that coffee would be lovely, thank you.

* * *

"Wow."

"Oh, _my_."

I wandered slowly around our suite. "Okay. Color me impressed." It was worth the cost (and deductible, to boot). It was the first hotel where the furnishings were nice enough that I wanted to steal them. The bedroom was freaking huge, the sitting room was a respectable size and from my special request, I knew the bathroom would be large, too. And after my phone call the day before, our tale of woe had inspired the manager to send up a lovely gift basket when we finally arrived: wine, cheese, specialty nuts and so forth. (It probably cost half of one room night's charge.) Ducky poked around in the basket and pulled out a box with a singular silver and lavender ribbon. He waggled it at me, grinning: Charlotte's Chocolates. "Nothing like a taste of home," I laughed.

We set to unpacking; Ducky passed me, taking his toiletries bag into the bathroom. "Oh, hullo!" I heard him exclaim in surprise and I grinned; I had kept the in-suite Jacuzzi a secret. He reemerged, smiling broadly. "Hydrotherapy. I heartily approve."

We weren't fully unpacked when there was a very soft knock at the door. It was barely 7:30; we weren't due to check in at the Expo until that afternoon so I doubted it was a friendly seller I'd met at a prior Expo, looking for a breakfast mate—and we hadn't done anything illegal or immoral (yet), so it shouldn't be security. (Do they have house dicks—ah, detectives any more? Or am I dating myself again?)

Surprise. It was the concierge, Ms. Sato.

"Miss Talmade. Your reservations." She handed me an envelope and disappeared before I could even think of scrambling for a tip. "Let's see…" I sat on the foot of the bed and opened the manila envelope.

When I had spoken with Hoshiko Sato when I had made the reservations for the hotel, I came away with little hope of getting much of anything. A good concierge is worth his or her weight in gold. (A really good one earns that kind of money in tips.) Now that I'd seen her, I knew she fit my mental image. The Ink48 concierge was not your typical NY concierge (a perfect blend of deference and aggression). She looked like a Japanese schoolgirl—plain white blouse, black skirt and jacket that could pass for a school uniform, long black hair caught in two pigtails that made me think of Abby and a soft, sweet voice and shy demeanor. Right out of central casting. I figured she would be sneered at by maître'd's and theatre managers would laugh uproariously as they slammed the phone in her ear.

I scanned the first sheet and my mouth fell open. "Honey… have you ever eaten at Per Se?"

"No… but I hear it's stunning. The chef changes the menu daily, I understand."

"You can find out for yourself. We have a 7:00 reservation tonight… followed by oh, good! Tickets for the revival of _A Chorus Line_. I love that show. Tenth row center, orchestra." The price being added to my room bill made my teeth ache—oh well; New York, New York, and you only live once. And I knew the price for dinner was going to be about what I paid for the latest trip to the mechanic's. But it was also a once-in-a-lifetime experience. "We also have reservations during the coming week at Tavern on the Green… Natsumi… oh, oh, Ayza!"

"What is Ayza?"

"It's a chocolate and wine bar!"

"We already have that," he said drily, pointing to the basket.

"Pooh on you." I continued to peruse the list. "And tickets for _Curtains_… _Legally Blonde… Spring Awakening_… Really good seats, too." My eyes widened. "And backstage passes to _Spring Awakening_. Private reception. Only for Book Expo attendees. Only for those who reserve tickets for the show that night, this wasn't even mentioned in the advance literature…! Oh… It seems one of the backers is head of a literacy foundation, this is a thank you to us book floggers."

Ducky turned back from arranging clothes in a dresser drawer. "You do get interesting perks."

"Yeah…" I reached out and grabbed his hand as he walked by, pulling him close. "But you're the best perk."

"Flatterer." I wrapped my arms around him and rubbed my cheek on his shirtfront. He has an endearing tummy curve (makes me feel better about my own excess chocolate cake poundage). He's the most comfortable person I know—and not just as a warm pillow. Comfortable in all ways. He combed through my hair and I sighed contentedly. "You want to take a nap?"

I tipped my head back and gave him a truly wicked grin. "Nap?" I slipped a finger through the gap between two buttons and brushed the back of the finger over his skin.

"Well, _I_ had a rather… spirited flight," he said with a wry smile. "I don't know about _you_…"

Truth be told, I _was_ tired. Except for a short nap on the Atlanta-NY jog (_very_ short), we'd been up since before… I couldn't do the math. We left Canada on Monday and here it was Wednesday; a lot of hours, no matter who does the addition.

"How about… a backrub?"

"Sold." The man knows my weaknesses. (Plus he knows I'm big on reciprocation.) "But could we grab some breakfast, first?" He glanced at the overstuffed basket. "That's not breakfast. Eggs. Steak. _Big_ steak. Hash browns. _Lotsa_ hash browns. To—"

"That's not breakfast, that's the blue plate special for the coronary unit," he retorted.

"Do I have to wave my blood work at you again?"

"One of these days—"

"Yeah, one of these days isn't today. I'm hungry, Ducky!"

"I'm sure there's a restaurant downstairs…"

"Good. 'cause I'm about to sprinkle catsup on you and eat you for breakfast," I said, grabbing my purse. His chuckle made me look up—and, belatedly, I realized how that could be taken, given where I was sitting and he was standing. I felt my cheeks turn hot. Don't know why I still blush around him, given that we've been sleeping together for a record six months, but I do.

And he finds it cute. He leaned down and kissed me, the kind of kiss that made me consider foregoing breakfast—and lunch and dinner. "I'll remember that for later," he murmured. "Or is the Jacuzzi just for show?"

"Hell, no."

* * *

Ducky looked at the Expo as a great chance to observe a subspecies of the human race: booksellers and others in the industry. He found us fascinating. We picked up our badges and registration packets and sifted through the updated schedule; not many changes from the one I'd been emailed and had printed out. Ducky and I had highlighted the earlier version like crazy—yellow for the things he particularly wanted to see, blue for the things I didn't want to miss, and pink for the times where we had more than one thing going on at the same time. A lot of autograph sessions fell into the last category, so we did a trade off down the line.

"Now I understand why you brought walkie-talkies."

"You betcha. Evvie and I did this gig for years—as soon as you leave one session, call the other person and see if they've finished their 'assignment' and go from there."

"It sounds like a battle plan."

"Not far off."

He caught the rhythm pretty quickly. When the exhibits opened that Friday, we made a coordinated attack, making our way through the hundreds of displays, collecting books and freebies and toting them to the hotel room for packing then returning for another haul. And there were last minute additions to the autograph sessions, some which turned out to be very pleasant surprises. A friend of his from the Jeffersonian, Dr. Temperence Brennan, was signing autographs for her forthcoming book; she was delighted to see Ducky, and we made plans to go out for dinner the next night. Sneaky little bugger, all these months and he never mentioned he was best friends with one of the biggest names in the business.

Saturday of the Expo, while I was hurrying from one autograph room to another, I found Ducky standing in front of a large A-frame looking at the sign with a funny expression. It was flogging the big autograph session for that afternoon, every hot poli-thrill author around, all in one room. "I didn't know you liked political thrillers," I said. Everyone from Tom Clancy to Stephen Coonts, James Huston to Ed Gaffney was listed—even the almost-as-hard-to-get-as-Clancy Eric Van Lustbader (one of the most interesting people on the planet) was on the slate.

"Occasionally." He gave me a sideways look. "Would you like to attend?"

"I hadn't thought to—but they announced the cartoonists would be changed to tomorrow morning, so we have the time free. And we have advances from most of them up in our room. We can each bring an armload."

We grabbed a quick lunch and returned in short order, laden with packed canvas book bags (the best giveaway, by far). The line was long, but not unruly. Clancy doesn't do many appearances, so he was a big draw. We inched our way forward, chatting with the couple behind us, who owned a mystery bookstore down the street from Disneyland. By the time we got to the long table we were the best of friends.

Tom Clancy was his usual reserved self. Always very pleasant and accommodating, but he's a rather private guy. We made our way down the table, from author to author.

"Hi!" I said, slipping the next book on the table. The author, a relative newcomer, was still signing the last book for the middle-aged woman in front of me. He pushed it toward her and glanced up… and a look of pain crossed his face. I literally gasped. "Mc—"

"Mr. Gemcity." Ducky slid his advance copy of _Deep Six: Rock Hollow_ next to mine. "What a wonderful surprise."

"Uh—yeah. Yeah." McGee was rattled beyond rattled. _Please, please, don't give me away_, his gaze said.

Now I knew why he'd looked so familiar all these months. I grinned at him. No, I wouldn't blow his cover. "So glad you have a second book coming out." I'd only skimmed the original _Deep_ _Six_—but I was going to re-read it cover to cover. Soon. L.J. Tibbs.? Agent Tommy? Lisa? I managed not to giggle. "Third in the works?"

"Hopefully." He scrawled his name, giving me a grateful look.

"I look forward to it."

I didn't mention it until we were safely back in our room. "McGee?" I spluttered, laughing like crazy. "_McGee?!!_ McGee writes political thrillers? I never recognized him!"

"Yes. His nom de plume—"

"Wait, wait—" I looked at the bright red cover of the proof. "Thom E.— T – I – M – O, it's an anagram, that bright boy. You didn't tell him where you were going this week, I take it?"

He looked almost affronted. "Timothy is not my social secretary."

"L.J. Tibbs? Tommy?" I giggled. "Pimmy Jalmer? Dr.—"

He silenced me with a kiss. "Watch out. I hear the good doctor is going to have a romantic entanglement in the next book."

I narrowed my eyes. I was going to have a long chat with young Timmy McGee when we returned home.

Dr. Brennan had a friend with her in New York, a colleague—a charming, good-looking man she introduced as Seeley Booth. She called him Booth, much as many people did with Gibbs, but he was fine with us calling him Seeley. He and Ducky had actually met a few times in D.C. courtesy their mutual friendship with Dr. Brennan. We clicked well over dinner and made plans to get together back in D.C. (Huh. It hit me during dinner that Ducky knew two authors—and had never said a word about either. Cagey man, my Ducky is.)

Book Expo behind us, we played around town another couple of days. And evenings.

The following Wednesday we dropped the last box with the concierge and checked our room for last minute left-behinds and I called the airline… just in case. Ducky rearranged the contents of one of his suitcases while I sat on hold. "Hi, yeah, I'm checking on flight 404 to Dulles?"

"One moment…" When the customer service rep returned to the phone, she was dripping with chipper sympathy. "I _do_ apologize… we appear to have a delay on that flight…"

My eyes met Ducky's.

We took the train home.

(Guess what? There's a railroad club, too.)

* * *

-4-

Definitions courtesy IOBA (Independent Online Booksellers Association). Support free speech—buy a book today!


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